


The Worst Justiciar

by Aiyta



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, Thalmor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8816539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiyta/pseuds/Aiyta
Summary: Firaelas finds the (non)actions of Markarth’s resident Thalmor Justiciar more than a little suspicious.





	

It had been four days.

Ogmund stepped from his doorway, sluggishly locking the door behind him. Just like yesterday, he noticed the small Bosmer lingering, crouched beside his doorstop. She rubbed her hands together, breathing on them to stay warm, and tentatively smiled. Ogmund grunted in disapproval. The first morning he’d found her, he’d given her a tongue lashing, called her a thief, a loiterer. But now he appeared to have given up.

After all, it had become something of a pattern now.  Every night for four long nights, Firaelas had camped herself outside his door. Not that she’d wanted to, but...

Obviously, it was her own fault for helping that Thalmor Justiciar in the first place. Firaelas was all about making friends but perhaps Ondolemar had been the wrong choice. He’d been fairly complementary about her _elven grace_ , yes, but the rest of the conversation wasn’t so harmless. The fact that he’d so quickly asked for assistance should’ve tipped her off that something wasn’t quite right. It was probably – okay, definitely – naive to expect the Thalmor to make a benign request, after all.

But now, there was no undoing the damage she’d done. There was no erasing the moment she gleefully let herself into Ogmund’s house. Definitely no forgetting the triumph she’d felt after wedging open his tightly locked supply chest. And then there was the moment she’d fished out the Amulet of Talos and delivered it straight to the Justiciar. There was certainly no taking back that part.

The only option she had left was the remedy the fallout. Theoretically.

Maybe she hadn’t thought of a real, proper plan yet, but Firaelas knew where Talos worshippers went. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard Ancano mutter little threats to Onmund at the College all the time. And then there’d been that incident with the Grey-Mane sons. She’d had to lay low for a while after that one. Perhaps that’s why she’d helped this Ondolemar – lingering guilt for that time she’d lodged a series of arrows into his co-worker’s ribs.

Still, that didn’t justify offering Ogmund up as sacrifice. Even if she hadn’t _really_ meant to.

So she’d taken up vigil outside his door, determined to keep him from paying the price for her mistakes. And ever since Fredas, her life had revolved around shadowing the grumpy bard. Overnight she watched over his doorway. The moment he departed each morning, she watched his movements around town. She followed him to the Inn each evening.  Sat around. Pretended to enjoy hearing _The Age of Aggression_ for the millionth time while really catching a wink of sleep by the fire.

And then she would repeat it all again.

If she was being honest, she’d admit she hadn’t thought it would take this long. The Thalmor did boast about their efficiency. But thus far, there’d been no sign of Aldmeri soldiers. Not even that smug Justiciar – who’d claimed he’d be _taking care of_ the Nord – had so much as traversed the streets near Ogmund’s home.

Firaelas wondered how much longer she could continue keeping watch. It wasn’t as though she had all the time in the world. Delvin would be expecting her back at the Guild any day. And then there was the matter of this Dragonborn business which, to be honest, she’d been rather avoiding. And truly, she was tired. Each bone in her body ached in a different way. She longed to take just ten minutes to scurry over to the Hag’s Cure and down a restorative potion.

But of course, she couldn’t. Those ten minutes could well be all it took to carry the old man away. And so her guilt had kept her firmly put.

If only those fetchers would turn up so she could be done with them.

 

* * *

 

They never did turn up.

Eventually it had become too much and after seven nights of little rest, Firaelas talked herself out of going through an eighth. Her arms were so tired they could barely lift her bow. So, what use could she have been?

She stayed in the city for three more nights, rooming at the Inn. Until a courier found her one evening with a handful of missives. One from Delvin; _she had their coin, where was she?_. One from Arngeir, _hadn’t she said she was coming with The Horn?_. Others from Lydia, who always liked to check on her whereabouts, and one with just a big, black handprint. Odd.

Despite keeping an ear to the ground, she’d heard nothing of Ogmund’s arrest. She remained vigilant, but faintly annoyed. If they had evidence, then why had nothing been done? Weren’t they supposed to be _capable_? Wasn’t that essentially their slogan? _The Aldmeri Dominion, more capable than the Empire.”_. Their frightful lack of action in this matter almost screamed incompetence, at least by their own standards. And it had Firaelas irritated. It was as though there was something else going on; a piece of the puzzle she didn’t understand.

It was fantastic luck that upon her return to the Guild, Delvin sent her right back to Markarth. A special job, he’d said. Jurgen Windcaller’s Horn still sat heavy in her carry pack, but Firaelas bypassed High Hrothgar and returned directly to the Reach. Arngeir would understand, she was sure.

Taking on Endon’s grunt work in Markarth turned out to be a hell of a thing. She’d set out to retrieve his lost cargo; certain a group of bandits wouldn’t have much long-term use for a silver mould. But the organisation at Pinewatch were no meek fools.  Despite sending in a thief, what had really been required was a warrior. Firaelas was sneaky, dangerous from a distance with a bow and arrow in hand, but clumsy up close and personal. She might’ve won out, taken the treasure room key and run for it, but she was now sporting a gash to the left eye and half the hair she’d arrived with.

Not to mention the loot she’d been forced to leave behind in her haste.

Endon had tried to ease her foul mood by ensuring her future riches through trade. But when that wasn’t enough, he’d offered a juicy tip; the Jarl of Markarth was known to keep a few healthy bags of coin in his personal chambers.

And so, Firaelas ended up in Understone Keep yet again.

“You there!”

Although she hadn’t even done anything illegal yet, she jumped. The voice was high, direct and came from the Altmer who’d been causing her sleepless nights for the past fortnight. And he was crouched over a dead dog.

Firaelas looked around but evidently he was talking to her.

“I don’t remember your name,” he said. His tone was dismissive, gaze less so. “But it’s good to see you again, friend.”

Really, Firaelas was at a loss for words.

Until the dog moved, whining. And she realised it wasn’t dead. Yet.

“What happened here?” she said, perhaps slightly accusing.

“Someone has seen fit to murder one of the Keep’s dogs,” the Justiciar responded tersely.

“Who?”

He moved to stand. “They have been dealt with,” he said with finality. “But Brutus yet lives. I’ve done the most that can be done with restoration alone. Do you have a healing potion? Otherwise I will see that you get one.”

“I have a hea-“

Firaelas had only just moved to take said healing potion from her pack when it was snatched from her hands.

“We do not have the luxury of time.”

Really, she thought, she did have to better consider to whom she offered her help. But the dog – Brutus, apparently – seemed to appreciate the Altmer, allowing him to pour the liquid down his throat. And Firaelas felt better when she considered how undignified he looked bottle-feeding a mutt. If only there were a way to capture it. Maybe she’d draw a picture and send it to his foot soldiers.

Though, while he remained kneeling Firaelas couldn’t help noticing his open pocket. And inside, the frayed edges of a familiar amulet. Ogmund’s Amulet of Talos. Safe in the Justiciar’s robes.

 

* * *

 

Firaelas truly had to stop attempting to make friends.

One quick stop-over in Riften, that’s all she’d intended. Instead, she’d come across a lovely priest at the Bee and Barb and promised to distribute flyers for him. Easy. Then he’d introduced her to his wife Dinya, equally as lovely, but a little more of a task master. And then she’d been sent off all over Skyrim doing Mara’s work.

Only, she was hopeless at romance. Dinya had first sent her to Ivarstead, which had been a terrible mess. She was certain she’d left Fastred more confused than she’d found her. And though she’d said as much upon her return to Riften’s temple, Dinya had entrusted her yet another task. This time in Markarth, where Firaelas had inherited the problem of Calcelmo’s lovelorn stagefright.

“Are you certain Yngvar said I must say this to Faleen myself?”

It was quiet, the dead of night, and yet the wizard still bustled around pretending there were important things to be done. Firaelas had long ago propped herself against his enchanter.

“No,” she sighed. “He called you an icebrain. Said I should just hand it over.”

Panic etched itself upon Calcelmo’s face. Firaelas cringed; truly, she was awful at this.

“That - That sounds like the safest course of action,” the wizard insisted. “I will remain here and see her if she likes it. If not… I will just remain here anyway.”

“But,” Firaelas argued desperately, waving the poem about in her hand, “That’s not very romantic, is it?”

Calcelmo fiddled with a soul gem in uncertainty.

“No, I suppose not,” he relented, looking completely overwhelmed. “Well, if this is Mara’s will…”

“I don’t know,” Firaelas admitted, “but I’m all she sent. So it’s the best you’re going to get.”

“Hmmm,”

“Just talk to Faleen. With or without the note.”

“Yes, tomorrow, I’ll need time to build my courage,” he admitted awkwardly, “Uh, the poem?”

Yvgvar’s ballad changed hands. Firaelas tried to provide some encouragement but Calcelmo was lost in his own anxieties. He departed hastily, leaving Firaelas to wonder if all this counted as having completed her duties.  Admittedly, she didn’t know if Mara was satisfied, nor what Dinya would think of her skipping out. So that meant spending another night in Markarth.

Firaelas dragged her heels all the way to the forecourt. She’d just begun to wonder on the sum of coin she’d thrown Kleppr’s way this month when a scratchy sound caught her attention. It was well past midnight and yet the distinctive sounds of quill against parchment echoed along the stone.

“Who’s that?” she asked the guards.

“It’s that damn elf,” the guard to her left replied. “Always writing missives in the middle of the night. It’s suspicious, if you ask me.”

It could be suspicious, she supposed. And even more so if it were that odd Justiciar.

Indeed, it _was_  Ondolemar. Firaelas hastily climbed the staircase to see him sitting, deep in thought, at a small stone table. An open bottle of Nord Mead sat beside him. Nord Mead was something with a fairly limited appeal. It was dreadful stuff if you didn’t have the taste for it, and stronger than almost anything else. Still, Ondolemar took an easy sip and continued to write.

Yes, very suspicious indeed.

“Justiciar,” she called out cheerfully.

Graceful as he was, there was no mistaking the sudden tension in his shoulders.

“Ahem,” he said, collecting himself. “Do sit.”

His posture relaxed ever so slightly, but his nimble fingers swiftly folded the parchment he’d been writing upon. Firaelas doubted it’d had time to dry so whatever it had said, he’d likely ruined it entirely.

“Sit? With you?”

“Who else?” he said smoothly, the picture of his usual self. “There are so few pleasures as fine as good company.”

Firaelas found herself wanting for words yet again. Never had a Thalmor expressed any interest in her company. Actually, Ancano spent plenty of time reminding her about what happened the last time the Thalmor sought Bosmer ‘ _company_ ’. It was enough to make her suspicious of the sentiment alone. But, in this case, she decided to sit.

There was something particularly off about this specific Thalmor agent. She would find out what.

 

* * *

 

Chatting with Ondolemar hadn’t been as enlightening as perhaps she’d anticipated. Actually, he’d spent so much time detailing the Empire’s degeneracy that she’d almost fallen asleep. Though he retained a sense of pleasantry he was especially repetitive. Particularly about elven supremacy. It was as though he was a living, breathing Aldmeri advertisement.

The bottles of Nord Mead on the table were never addressed, as though it wasn’t he who’d placed them there.

Firaelas had departed after his second explanation of the Oblivion Crisis. It was almost impossible to get him off-topic and she was no master conversationalist. She fared far better in silent endeavours, things like slipping an errant hand into full pockets.

Still, the Justiciar’s behaviour rankled.

It consumed her thoughts all the way to the Silver-Blodd Inn, where there appeared to be a similar topic of discussion unfolding.

Frabbi was standing, arms crossed, barring Vorstag passage to the exit. Endon and Kerah were chiding Cosnach who’d spilt his mead over Degaine at the bar. And Kleppr was shouting at his wife whilst Hreinn and Hroki lingerered awkwardly nearby. Nobody noticed Firaelas slip in, but then, the Silver-Blood wasn’t particularly noted for its customer service.

“He’s his own man, leave him be.” Kleppr was scolding his wife.

Frabbi ignored him and blocked Vorstag’s attempt to leave. Vorstag rolled his eyes.

“Let me out, woman. Temple’s fine. Nobody’s had a problem,” he said. “That Eltrys is always there, says he’s never seen an elf walk through those doors.”

Ogmund abruptly stopped playing his lute, now interested in the commotion.

“And what would a Breton want with Talos?” he demanded, as though horridly offended.

“Oh, you stay out of this,” said Frabbi, quickly turning on the bard. “Yours is the worst kept secret of the lot. If anyone brings those swots to our doors, it’ll be you.”

“Didn’t you say, Ogmund, that your Amulet had been stolen?” Hreinn piped up nervously. “It could’ve been the Thalmor.”

Firaelas looked back to Vorstag, who’d used Frabbi’s inattention to slip halfway out the door.

“Well that settles it, doesn’t it?” he said. “The old skald’s still over there playing his lute. Plain as day. Right as rain. If they’re coming for anyone first, they’re coming for him.”

“Vorstag!” gasped Kerah.

But he was gone. Frabbi turned to see the golden doors clatter in his wake.

“Fool,” she growled after him.

“Oh pipe down, _dear_  wife of mine,” scoffed Kleppr. “Our temple’s perfectly safe. There’s been no one at our doors-“

“ _Our_ temple?” Frabbi repeated harshly, her eyes like daggers. “Have you been going there?”

“I never said that.”

“Oh, you useless oaf!” she cried. “Can’t you see you’re putting us all in danger? You idiot! What’ll you do when the elves are dragging your children off in the night? I know you damn well can’t fight, you fat lout.”

“What damn elves?”

All turned to Cosnach, who’d propped himself awkwardly across the bar. There was a look of drunken bewilderment upon his face.

“There’s Thalmor in the Keep,” Endon clarified slowly.

“Wha’? Never seen ‘em,” Cosnach declared. “What use are they if nobody knows about ‘em?”

“People know about them.”

“Well I don’t,” Degaine piped up. “I thought the only elf was that wizard.”

Ogmund restlessly tapped his flute against an empty barrel.

“Are we going to spend all night talking about those milk-drinking elves, or am I going to play some songs?” he grumbled.

There were slow murmurs of acceptance as people returned to their drinks. Ogmund picked up  _Tale of the Tongues_  from mid-verse. The Thalmor were all but forgotten in a matter of seconds, even by Frabbi, who’d then spied Firaelas. Kleppr received a dressing down for missing a customer’s entrance and all returned to normal.

Except in the depths of Firaelas' mind, where their comments echoed. _Nobody at the Temple. Nobody at our doors._

 

* * *

 

Honestly, in her defence, she’d known befriending Delphine wasn’t going to be the greatest idea.

It might’ve that time she left a note, signed _\- A friend_ , where the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller should’ve been. Even Firaelas knew that was a bad omen. Maybe it had been the incident where she’d been dragged out for a morning of dragon slaying. Friends didn’t make friends eat dragon souls for breakfast. So, overall, being Delphine’s friend had thus far been downright uncomfortable.

But tonight she’d outdone herself.

“Don’t worry,” Delphine had told her, leaning against the stonework in Solitude. Firaelas’ pack sat on the ground, temporarily discarded.  Firaelas herself fiddled awkwardly with the sleeves on her fine gown. “I’ll have your things waiting for you when you get back. Just make sure you make it alive and with the information we need. Good luck.”

Firaelas was an awful conversationalist and even worse as an actress. Once she’d arrived at the Thalmor Embassy there was simply no masking her nerves. She’d all but squealed her words when asked to present her invitation. And, once inside she’d immediately come face-to-face with the Thalmor Ambassador. It was safe to say her squeak was plainly audible.

After Elenwen introduced herself, Firaelas found herself mute. Inane thoughts raced through her head. _Could the Thalmor read minds? Could Elenwen smell fear?_   No, she was being ridiculous. And silent, so silent. But when she tried to speak her mouth was so dry.

Malborn intervened but looked dismayed and Firaelas burned with shame.

Subsequently, she found a corner to hide in. And happened upon an unlikely face. Ondolemar, tall and proud, standing halfway across the room. Beside him stood Jarl Idgrod of Morthal, with whom he seemed to be involved in a stilted conversation. Firaelas drew closer and was regaled with the Justiciar’s regurgitated small-talk.

“The degeneracy of the Empire is on display here in this room.”

Quite strangely, this caused Idgrod to smile affably.

“Yes, dear. That’s very good.”

Ondolemar appeared only briefly askance.

“Excuse me?” he sniffed, expression swiftly controlled. “You are speaking to a member of the Thalmor, remember that.”

“Oh I could hardly forget,” Idgrod assured, not unkindly. “And you are doing a wonderful job.”

This concluded their odd discussion, as the Jarl swept away. Ondolemar raised his goblet to his lips, but lowered it abruptly upon spying Firaelas.

“Oh - ah,”

“This is quite irregular,” he commented sharply. “I trust that you simply have connections you have… neglected to inform me of.”

Deciding it was not time to further test her acting skills, she changed the subject. “Why’re you here?”

He surveyed her briefly before answering, “There are those in the Empire who would wish to evade their obligations to root out the Talos heresy,”

_Oh, like you?_  she thought smugly.

“I am here to remind the ruling classes of Skyrim that their loyalty to the Emperor requires cooperation with the Thalmor.”

Firaelas ignored his pre-determined conversation piece. “So, maybe you could help me out?”

He eyes quickly snapped across the room. “Do not presume too much upon our friendship.”

“I’m just looking for… a diversion. Just a moment or two,” she said hastily. “I could ask Idgrod instead, I suppose.”

But Ondolemar set down his goblet. “You have asked for my help,” he said sagely. “And I will provide it.”

Firaelas cocked her head to the side. “Thanks. Friend.”

Without a moment’s notice he’d nodded to her, traversed the room and picked a fight with the slurring Redguard that Firaelas had met outside. Spurred into action, Firaelas scurried behind the bar as Ondolemar accused Razelan of some poorly chosen words. The drunken Redguard tried poorly to extract himself from the situation but failed. Malborn closed the door behind them just as Elenwen's voice interrupted the squabble.

They set off quickly toward the kitchens, Malborn sparing her a brief curious glance.

“You know Ondolemar?” he asked quietly.

Firaelas shrugged, “We’re… friends.”

 

* * *

 

Growing up in Valenwood, Firaelas had always been taught plants were special.  _Become one with them_  her mother had always urged. Firaelas had not listened. Maybe that had been a mistake. Fittingly, her chances of survival now relied upon remaining hidden behind a houseplant in the depths of the Thalmor Embassy.

There was a foot soldier at attention by the stairwell. Inside an adjacent room, a terse conversation had endured. Out of it came a Nord, displeased but skittish – apparently named Gissur. Behind him, an Altmer, in full Justiciar regalia. Firaelas did her best imitation of a snowberry as the Thalmor Officer exited and dismissed his, er, co-worker.

The Nord disappeared out the door to her left, muttering under his breath all the while. The Altmer strode forward with a handful of papers and disappeared through a door she couldn’t see. After the sound of his descending footsteps waned, Firaelas rocked forward. Nocking an arrow as quickly as she could, she stepped from her cover and removed the patrolling soldier.

There wasn’t much to be said for the now-emptied rooms. They were clinical, lacking anything of value. Shelves mostly barren and cupboards full of writing materials. The room in which the conversation had occurred was sparsely furnished and only one flickering candle remained upon the desk. Firaelas had sought to follow the Thalmor to the basement when she spied it – a chest.

It was foolishly – or perhaps arrogantly – left unlocked.

Inside lay a collection of dossiers, neatly labelled. Three in particular caught her eye:  _Dragon Investigation: Current Status_ ,  _Delphine_  and  _Ulfric Stormcloak_. But they didn’t hold her attention for long. Resting at the chests base were two large ledgers, the most recent an updated ledger of arrests.

It was cumbersome and thwacked loudly on the desk as she opened it.

Like everything else it was neatly kept. Chronological entries detailed each arrest, the purpose, location and the prisoner’s destination. There was an Agent Lorcalin who was prolific, his arrests were frequent and spread across Skyrim. Ancano was recorded as having sent a mage formerly of the College of Winterhold for questioning at the Embassy. The investigator was named Rulildil. Another agent named Ancarion was recorded as stationed at Northshore Landing, though Firaelas couldn’t be certain where that was. An Agent Sanyon was the one who’d sent Thorald Grey-Mane to Northwatch.

Firaelas turned back and poured over the entries again. Not one mention of Ondolemar.

But there was something more pressing. The most recent entry. Etienne Rarnis delivered by Gissur to Rulindil two days’ prior for questioning in the Embassy’s interrogation chamber. Firaelas knew Etienne from the Thieves Guild; quiet, capable and last she knew, headed to Whiterun for a heist.

Panicked, she flew down the stairs and fumbled with the chamber lock. The Altmer – Rulindil – was speaking as she emerged.

“I must say I continue to be disappointed in your lack of cooperation,”

“What else do you want from me?” the voice of Etienne pleaded. “I’ve already told you everything. Listen, if you let me go I can take you to Riften, show you where – Gaahhh!”

Firaelas flung herself over the railing with a poorly shot arrow. It hit a solider in the neck. Ruldildil sprang from his seat.

“Who is there? Show yourself!”

Lightning rattled in his palm.

Footing lost, Firaelas rolled forward. One errant arrow tumbled, clanging against the chandelier as she fell. Rulindil turned toward the noise. Without time for a proper shot, Firaelas lodged a lazy arrow into his leg. The Altmer hissed. Lightning cracked, darted forward and hit her side.

Rulindil readied another bolt as Firaelas rolled. Arrows tumbled from her quiver. Firaelas reached for one but lighting hit her fingertips. Shakily, an arrow was nocked. It hit the Altmer’s shoulder. He lurched backward as she clambered to her feet.

The arrow tapped unsteadily against her bow. Rulindil scrambled, rose – but the arrow beat him. A lightning bolt crackled and fizzled out in his palm.

Firaelas stood over him. Her breath heavy, panting. He was dead.

_These_  were the Thalmor she’d been warned of. And she was absolutely certain that Ondolemar was nothing like them.

 

* * *

 

Returning to Delphine should’ve been priority. Firaelas knew it. Malborn’s disapproval reinforced it. But instead of hoisting her trembling legs into a cart to Riverwood, she’d travelled directly to Markarth.

Though her body tingled with residue shock, she’d never felt so full of purpose. On weary legs she staggered her way to Understone Keep. Ondolemar was, as ever, easy to find.

“I need to speak with you,”

The Justiciar cocked an eyebrow. “I see you have forgotten your manners.”

“Alone,” she added.

“Nonsense,” he retorted. “Anything you might say to me can be done in the presence-“

Firaelas felt the exhaustion wash over her. “It’s important.”

The original fire in her words had dissipated. And she’d stopped steps short, her legs burning.

Ondolemar’s lips pursed. He nodded. “Very well,” he addressed his guards, “You’re dismissed.”

Understone Keep was poorly designed for private conversation, but halfway down the expansive stairs afforded distance. Ondolemar surveyed their surroundings before turning to her.

“What are you doing here?” Firaelas blurted.

Ondolemar bristled. “If I am not mistaken I am indulging you in a _brief_  conversation.”

"No, I mean, here, in Markarth. In Skyrim,” she gestured toward him. “Dressed like that. Spouting about heresy.”

“I am protecting the Thalmor’s interests-“

“ _Ondolemar_ ,” she hissed. “Are we going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”

“I hardly know what you’re insinuating, but do remember who you’re speaking to.”

“I know who I’m speaking to,” she bit back. “I’m _speaking_  to a member of the Thalmor. The Embassy was infiltrated last night. I know you’ve heard. I know you know I did it.”

“You?” he said mockingly. “Outsmart the Aldmeri Dominion? I doubt it.”

Firaelas glowered. “I killed Rulindil.”

Ondolemar’s eyes widened. Conflicting emotions flickered across his face.

“Mmm. I read some things, too,” she continued. “Funny, but you’ve never sent a prisoner to Northwatch Keep.”

She took a step closer.

“I know you’ve never made a single visit to the Temple of Talos in this very city.”

He took a steadied breath.

“Ogmund’s worship is the worst-kept secret in town and yet you’ve done nothing. Besides confiscate it, maybe so he can’t get caught by someone else? Someone who would do more than just let it burn holes in their pocket?”

Ondolemar glanced around quickly. “What is it you want?” he asked tightly.

Firaelas startled, stepped backward. “Nothing!” she cried. “No, I’m not here for – I just want the truth.”

Though his shoulders relaxed, his jaw tensed. “I was sent here to uncover signs of Talos worship,” he said lowly. “I do just that.”

A thoughtful silence descended. Firaelas studied his face.

“And after you uncover them?”

“I ensure they will not be uncovered again.”

Firaelas nodded. “The people taken to Northwatch?”

“There is nothing I can do for them,” he responded quickly, brow creased. “Markarth is my jurisdiction.”

Firaelas sunk heavily onto a stone step.

“…How did you get this job?”

Ondolemar raised an eyebrow. “A superiorly bred Mer such as myself attracts the attention of those who value pedigree. I have always know this would be my future.”

She glanced up, “So why jeopardise it?”

"You’re awfully inquisitive, aren’t you?” he said, sounding pained. “You believe it better I denounce my role and have it filled by a more… enthusiastic officer?”

Firaelas bit her lip, shook her head.

“No,” he surmised. “Though they do not understand it, the citizens of this city need me. I stand between them and the most powerful political faction in Tamriel.”

There was a quiet pop as Firaelas released her lip from between her teeth.

Ondolemar cleared his throat. “If you are quite done exposing me for your personal enjoyment,” he began. “I consider our conversation to have come to an end.”

She jumped up as he turned. Her fingertips wound around his sleeve.

“It’s not for no reason. We’re friends… allies. Right?”

He nodded curtly. “It would appear so,” he said, eyes on his returned guards. “Now get your hands off me, Wood Elf.”

Ondolemar shook himself free of her grasp and returned to his patrol. Behind him, his foot soldiers shot her filthy looks for touching their Justiciar. Firaelas turned and walked down the steps, a smile blooming on her face.


End file.
